


An Extreme Possibility

by ThexInvisiblexGirl



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s11e07 Rm9sbG93ZXJz, Post-Episode: s11e10 My Struggle IV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25406560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThexInvisiblexGirl/pseuds/ThexInvisiblexGirl
Summary: So how did the final twist of the series finale come about?
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 12
Kudos: 78





	1. Part I - Scully

The pain wakes her up, like snakes slithering madly in the pit of her stomach. She lays there frozen, wondering if she's experiencing sleep paralysis again, checks that theory by flexing and pointing her toes. She's relieved she can move, but the pain remains constant and unrelenting; she would have doubled over with it if Mulder hasn't been sleeping so soundly beside her. Only one thought comes to mind – as if that Japanese restaurant hasn't caused them enough trouble already. Her body feels heavy, and alternating chills of hot and cold course through her. A familiar, unmistakable sensation is making its way up her throat. She jolts out of bed and races to the bathroom, somehow making it just in time for the first wave of nausea to tear through her.

She doesn't know how long she's sitting there, retching; she's still mostly asleep, exhausted by the occurrences of the previous night. She has no idea what time it is, how long they've been asleep. She places a shaky finger against the side of her throat, where her pulse is wild, thready. She can feel the cold sweat drying against her skin. Her stomach is still churning. Damned that restaurant and its robots, she thinks yet again, forcing herself to take deep breaths. She's moaning softly into the semi-darkness. She feels miserable, achy all over.

"Scully?"

She opens one eye to find herself on the floor in a fetal position, her cheek pressed against the cold tiles. She doesn't even remember lying down. Mulder, disheveled and sleep still in his eyes, is towering over her, looking down at her with concern. "Are you okay?"

Her dry lips part as if to reply, but bile rushes up her throat once more and she jolts to hover over the toilet. It feels as if nothing has left in her, but the need to get it out is still stronger than her. She feels movement behind her, and before she can push him back he's kneeling next to her, rubbing a soothing hand against her back. Over the years they've seen each other at their very worst, and so she's both embarrassed and reassured by his presence. "I'm fine," she croaks.

"Yeah, I can see that," he chuckles darkly. "Must be that goddamned sushi."

"That's what I've been thinking," she replies weakly, reaching her hand to flush the toilet. She can barely keep her arm up. He notices, and does it for her.

"I still can't get over the audacity, demanding a tip for... well, _that_."

She wishes she could come up with a snarky comment about how he is getting stingy in old age; she's too drained to think. Instead she asks him, "You're not feeling sick, are you?"

"Nope, which makes sense; I haven't actually eaten anything over there." They exchange a weary smile, the memory of that unfortunate blobfish on his plate still fresh in their minds. She's so glad she's managed to take a picture of it on her phone; she will have fun teasing him about it later. The thought is oddly comforting now. "Wanna go lie down? I'll get you a rag for your face and some tea."

"I need a minute."

"Sure," he says quietly, leaning against the wall. Getting the hint, she crawls closer and places her head in his lap. He threads his fingers in her hair, rubbing her skull gently the way he knows she likes. She doesn't even have the energy to purr in gratitude the way she knows _he_ likes.

"What time is it?"

"Nearly six."

"In the evening?" She's stunned. She can't remember the last time she's slept so much during the daytime.

"It's been a long night," he points out. _And we're not as young as we used to be_. That he doesn't say, but it's there in his distant expression.

"Yeah, tell me about it," she replies through a yawn. They're way too old for late night chases, should have learned their lesson after the last time, chasing an NSA simulation to Manhattan following a strange phone call from Langly, just a month or so back. "It's official. Worst date ever."

He chuckles. With her ear pressed against his thighs, the sound reverberates nicely through her, leaving goosebumps against her cooling skin. "I don't know about that. The girl has spent the night, or rather the morning, so I like to think I got lucky."

But before she manages a backfire, reality hits her hard and fast. She sighs. "I need to go check on my place. Call my landlord, the insurance company – "

"The only place you're going right now is back to bed, Scully." She glances over her shoulder, her eyebrow raised at his bossiness. He holds her gaze stubbornly, unfazed. "I'm not kidding, you look awful. And after that stint you pulled at the hospital a few months back, I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"I'm feeling better," she counters, then pulls away from him when she thinks another wave of nausea is about to hit. When nothing happens, she peeks at him sheepishly and he nods, as if that's all the proof he's needed.

"If you're only renting the place, I'm pretty sure it's your landlord who should be dealing with the insurance company, not you. I'll call him for you first thing in the morning. I'll go over to your place and pack you some stuff. I don't want you alone in that house until we know it's over."

She'll never admit it, but she likes protective Mulder, has grown fond of him over the years. It was sweet of him to take her in without question in the aftermath of the previous night's events, given the strange circumstances of their personal relationship. Despite her trepidation, there was no awkwardness at all as she borrowed some of his clothes to sleep in, and reclaimed what used to be her side of the bed, nor when he crawled into bed beside her. Old habits die hard, she supposes.

She pretends to look around the bathroom, then forces on a tiny grin. "No baby drones. I think it's safe to assume it's over."

"I'm not arguing with you. It's either here or straight to the ER. Pick your poison."

She narrows her eyes at him; he knows just which buttons to push. He beams at her, unabashed. "I thought so. Come on, I'll help you up."

She sways a little as she stands up, holding on to the sink with one hand and his arm with the other. When she's feeling steady she nods at him, and he hovers against the doorway as she washes her face and borrows some of his mouthwash. Then she follows him back into his (their?) bedroom, where they lay side by side. He doesn't try to touch her, which she appreciates. He hasn't tried earlier as well, and she likes that he's so committed to taking things slow, which has been the whole purpose of last night's date to begin with.

And yet when she wakes up hours later, they're a tangle of limbs, his arms around her and their legs intertwined, somehow finding their way to one another even in sleep. His chin fits perfectly in the crook of her neck, his soft breathing warm against her ear. It's pitch dark, and she lets herself drift back to sleep, his scent wraps around her like a mist.

When she wakes again it's morning, and she's alone in bed. There's a post-it on her phone in Mulder's handwriting, telling her he'll be back in a bit and to make herself at home (she can totally picture him gloat as he has scribbled that part). To her enormous relief, she's feeling steadier than the previous evening, but opts for tea over coffee anyway. It's a fancy herbal brand she has once mentioned to him, chamomile and lavender. She smiles at his thoughtfulness. He cannot stand herbal tea, constantly teases her about it, and yet since she has been back to spending so much time at his place, he's made a point of stocking the kitchen with it just for her sake.

She takes her tea mug out to the porch, where the air is still crisp after last night's rain. She used to love sitting there with her coffee before rushing to her shift at the hospital. When things were good, he used to sit with her too, stealing a few more minutes together before she dashed for the day's work. In darker times she sat there by herself and tried hard not to think about the ominous closed door of his study, about him wasting away in that room. She's drinking her tea in tiny sips, thinking how changed everything is, how every corner of this house holds precious memories, and not so precious ones; how it is no longer her home.

This is where Mulder finds her when he returns some time later. Their eyes meet and he waves at her through the windshield before stepping out of the car, hoisting an overnight bag on his shoulder and carrying several bags of groceries. She rises in order to help him, but he raises his arm in protest.

"Don't, I've got it." She waits at the top of the stairs, then takes the grocery bags from him despite the scowl he aims at her. "I wish you weren't so stubborn."

"I've been saying this about you for years," she backfires, then holds his gaze. "I'm better. Honestly."

"I don't care. You shouldn't be doing this, you're my guest." The words sting even though they're true; it's as if they haven't chosen this house together, as if she's never lived there. Something in his demeanor changes ever so slightly, as though he's been hurt by his own words too. They don't address it (well, do they ever), just go inside and head towards the kitchen. As they unload the grocery bags she notices he's picked her favorite yogurt and cream cheese. It shouldn't surprise her that he remembers, but it does; she's touched, but tries not to let it show. They move around the kitchen in perfect sync as they cook breakfast together, and it is the most normal they have been around each other in months. As they sit down to eat, he tells her he's been to her place.

"It looked much worse last night, thankfully. I called Skinner to tell him we wouldn't be coming in today; he promised to look into the insurance issue for you, although he agreed it was probably your landlord's responsibility, not yours. But anyway, he'll tell them something about a smart home device nearly killing off one of his best agents." They exchange a sardonic smile at the mental image. "Apparently someone did manage to call 911 eventually, and the fire department's been over after we left last night. I spoke with your landlord about changing the locks; he'll text you as soon as it's safe for you to return, probably later today."

"I left my phone upstairs," she replies quietly. After the previous night she wants nothing to do with that wretched device. She's overwhelmed by everything he's telling her, but relieved that she's only renting the place. Given the amount of damage the explosion must have caused, she would have freaked out if she has actually owned it.

"You're welcome to stay for as long as you want," he says softly, and their gazes lock. _This is your home. You chose to leave, but it doesn't make it less your home._ The words he doesn't say hurt, but she's transfixed, unable to look away. Then he clears his throat, and the intensity of the moment wanes. "Are you really better?"

"It was just food poisoning, Mulder, I've had worse."

"I know." There's a pause, but she can tell there's something on his mind. Then he looks up at her pleadingly. "Will you stay anyway? Just for a couple of days," he adds hurriedly when he sees she's about to protest. "Just... for my own peace of mind."

She doesn't want to argue with him; she knows he's only looking out for her, and has the best intentions at heart. Nonetheless, she doesn't want him to get the wrong impression. She has left for a reason. She isn't ready to come home just yet. "Well," she begins slowly, and notices how he sits a little straighter. "If you brought some of my work clothes in that overnight bag, I guess I could stay for a few days."

He tries not to smile, but she can tell it's a struggle. "I did, as it happens."

She nods, then sighs with exasperation for extra emphasis, but that doesn't wipe the smug expression off his face.

"Well, now that this issue is resolved, maybe you could answer something for me, something you left unanswered the other night."

"Okay?" She agrees halfheartedly, already thinking of a proper backfire in case he comes up with another quip about her discarded vibrator.

"How come your house is so much nicer than mine?"

* * *

Throughout her stay, they tread that fine line between platonic and romantic, never quite crossing it. It feels strange, but not entirely unpleasant. She's fine most of the time, faint and queasy at intervals, but doesn't share it with him, doesn't want him to worry. When she returns home eventually, her place feels empty and alien, and on the first day she's paranoid, waiting for the next attack, which obviously never comes. Her first night back is restless – she will never admit how much safer she feels with Mulder in bed next to her. The next morning she feels more nauseated than normally, and barely makes it to the bathroom after a mere whiff of her coffee makes her stomach turn.

At this point she gets suspicious. It's been nearly two weeks since their disastrous date – there's absolutely no way this is its aftermath still. She stumbles back into the kitchen on wobbly feet, pours herself a glass of ice-cold water, and sits by the counter to think. She's trying to approach this like a doctor would. She mentally lists her symptoms, checks her memory to pinpoint exactly when it has started. Her mind is filled with dangerous speculations; she's shaking her head as though that will help to send those away. There's no chance of that. She's beginning to see what's going on here, she thinks. She _hopes_. But it's impossible. More than that, it's improbable.

And yet. There has been an opportunity. The one time they _have_ crossed that fine line, during that case with Chucky and Judy. The time frame is right. She knows the signs. If not as a woman then as a doctor. Unbelievable as it may be, she needs to get this checked out, because if she's right... There's no way she's right. Right...?

For a moment she's baffled as for what her next step should be. She's too embarrassed to simply go into a pharmacy and get a home test kit. She's never given a damn about what other people think, but this is different territory. A woman her age... She could order one online, but she's wary of anything internet-related these days. She still has some connections at the hospital, but any request to access the lab will surely raise questions she isn't sure she can answer yet. She's feeling self-conscious just thinking about it.

The answer comes to her like an epiphany. She grabs her phone and scrolls through her contacts. She bites her lip nervously as she's waiting for an answer on the other end.

"Agent Einstein speaking." Her voice is crisp and curt. She likes this about the younger agent.

"Agent Einstein, good morning, this is Dana Scully."

"Agent Scully." There's surprise in the younger agent's voice. "Long time no see. How have you been?"

"Good, thank you. I, uhhh, I was wondering if I could trouble you with something."

"Of course. How can I help?"

"It's, uhhh... It's a private matter, actually. And I'll appreciate your discretion."

"Are you alright, Agent Scully?"

She hesitates for just a second, but knows full well this is her best bet. She takes a deep breath. Nothing to it, really. "I think I may be pregnant."

To her credit, Agent Einstein remains as cool as a cucumber as she lays down her request. She asks a few questions, but sticks to the facts without getting overly nosey. They are to meet at the Quantico labs within an hour. She texts Mulder, fibbing something about being called away on an urgent consultation and promising to be at the office by noon. Then, heart pounding with possibilities (or _im_ possibilities), she goes to get dressed.

* * *

"I don't think I need to tell you how utterly impossible this is." Agent Einstein is shaking her head, having now heard the entire tale. She recognizes the skeptical expression on the younger agent's face; she all but invented it. "You're – "

"Too old for this?" She completes bluntly, but her voice remains soft, no higher than a murmur.

"I was going to say _unable to conceive_ , actually," replies Agent Einstein without missing a beat. There's a spark of guilt in her eyes. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry. I realize this is all very personal."

"It's in the X Files. That sort of makes it public domain whether I like it or not, I suppose." She hesitates, then asks, "Do you believe in miracles, Agent Einstein?"

"Do _you_?"

Her fingers instinctively wrap around her necklace. Agent Einstein's eyes follow the movement of her hand. "During my work on the X Files, I witnessed one or two. You do know I had... I _have_ a son, who wasn't meant to be either." She allows herself a fond smile as she thinks of William, their brief encounter at the gas station. _You seem like a nice person. I wish I could know you better_.

"Well... It doesn't really matter what I believe. And whether or not this is a miracle, it's science that will eventually give us the answers we need, so..." Agent Einstein reaches for the vial of blood that rests on the desk between them, and hands her the bag from the pharmacy, containing the home test kit which she has purchased on-route. Their gazes lock for just a moment, blue on blue, and then they rise and go their separate ways, each to her own inspection.

* * *

Those are the longest five minutes of her life. She forces her gaze away from the stick, not wanting to see the negative result if it appears, because she's now convinced in the opposite, with every fiber of her being. This is real. She has never believed in anything as strongly as she does in this. And then she blinks again and there it is, plain as day, and the sound that escapes her lips is half a gasp, half a sob, although she isn't surprised, not really.

Her fingers are still shaking as she reenters the lab. Agent Einstein is hunched over the microscope; her hair, even in a messy French twist, is like a flame against her pristine white lab coat. She looks up at the sound of opening door, her eyes wide with shock. "I don't believe this," she declares as soon as their eyes meet.

She rushes forward, crossing the room in three strides. "It's positive, isn't it?"

" _Yes!_ "

"So is this one," she says, raising the test stick she's still holding.

"This should not be possible," says Agent Einstein, shaking her head in confusion.

"And yet, somehow it is," she replies softly. She cannot stop smiling. Her head is reeling, but in the best way possible.

"An extreme possibility, if I've ever seen one," murmurs Agent Einstein, her eyes drifting to the microscope once more, then back to her. "I honestly don't know what to say."

"Well... You could start with _congratulations_."

They share a smile, then just stand there in silence with the intensity of their revelation charging the air between them. In her heart she knows this isn't going to be easy. She knows the risks, the limitations that come with age, but for the moment, she doesn't care. She will cross that bridge when she gets to it. For the time being there are other things to consider, plans to be made. Because this is a sign, the most glaring and blatant one she could have asked for. And even without it, she knows what she has to do, has known it for a while. Although he has pleaded with her many times and in various forms, not necessarily asking her upright, she knows now there's no getting away with it. She has to come home. More than that, she wants to. If she's truly honest with herself, there's nothing she wants more.

But first things first, she tells herself, touching the still invisible bump of her abdomen.

She needs to tell Mulder.


	2. Part II - Mulder

It is a night of revelations.

Exhaustion fills him to his very core, but he drives on. Grasping at the steering wheel helps him feel balanced, gives him something to hold on to, literally. His head is still reeling from everything that has come to pass tonight, the days leading to this very moment. Every possible emotion sears through him –love and hate, certainty and confusion, hope and despair. He can only hope he's able to stir them off to safety before it all comes crushing down on him, as is bound to happen. He can feel the breaking point within reach, but turns his back on it stubbornly. There will be a time for it. He cannot fall apart just yet.

He drops one hand off the steering wheel. Their hands find each other almost instantly, an instinct formed over two decades. It takes him by surprise; he thought she was asleep. He laces their fingers together and gently squeezes their joined hands. She squeezes back without opening her eyes. For just a moment, love and hope triumph over hate and despair. Certainty conquers confusion. This is all he'll ever need, right there beside him.

He tries to make sense of everything that's happened in the last few hours. His father is dead – for good, it seems, this time. Agent Reyes, unbelievably, his father's accomplice, has also been found dead at the scene. Skinner is critically injured, hailed off to a hospital some time ago; fighting for his life, no doubt. William, Jackson, has sacrificed his life for him, a man who isn't even his father, as it turns out.

And the biggest revelation of all.

He glances at Scully, shaking his head in disbelief. Could this be real? All his life people have mocked him for believing whatever comes his way without question. For the first time ever it's so hard for him to do so. It isn't her he doubts, never that, just... this. He is reminded of that conversation they had not too long ago, which must have been the same night it happened, he now realizes. _I'm at the end of that journey_ , she told him, mourning her missed chance at motherhood. This was then... and now this.

He wants to kick himself for his cluelessness. For one so observant, he's been doing a lousy job when it comes to his personal life. Surely he should have seen it coming. He isn't entirely to blame, though; he has never been around a pregnant woman before to actually recognize the signs even as they accumulated. The only time something seemed genuinely wrong with her was the day following their unfortunate date at that goddamned robot restaurant.

He drives them to his place. He knows he should probably drop her off at hers, but he doesn't want to be alone right now. Doesn't want to think about the son he thought he had, the boy they have lost before getting a chance to truly know. She doesn't even stir as he kills off the engine and just sits there for a moment, across from the house they have shared for a while, the house which is no longer her home, but that she finds her way towards every single time.

He touches her shoulder gently and watches her sigh deeply before opening her eyes. They're red and a little puffy – partly from exhaustion, mostly from tears, possibly a perfect reflection of his own. She manages a tiny smile at him. "Are we home?" she asks him, her voice thick with sleep. The words fill him with such happiness he feels selfish for his vanity, given everything they've lost that day.

"Yeah. We're home."

They walk inside the dark house, ignoring the mess of the ground floor. Their motions are perfunctory as they get ready for bed; get changed, brush their teeth, snuggle against one another without a word. He doesn't know how long they lay there in the dark, breathing in perfect sync. As tired as he is, sleep suddenly eludes him, his mind far too alert to properly shut down. He pulls away from her slowly, gently, and tucks the covers more tightly around her before leaving the room and treading downstairs.

He paces the living room for a while in a hopeless attempt to put the place in order, then settles on the shabby sofa and looks around him as if for the first time. He tries to see the room the way she sees it. In her absence it has become an extension of their basement office, files and photos and newspaper articles strewn everywhere in perfect disarray. It is no longer confined to the small study, where she could just shut the door and pretend this strange haven of his has ever existed. He's reminded of her immaculate apartment in Georgetown, can even remember the way it smelt. He thinks of the house she currently lives in. If he wants her back home, he will have to make certain changes. He has proven himself worthy of her, he thinks (he _hopes_ ) – now it is time to make this place her home again.

There's a rustle behind him. He looks over his shoulder just in time to see her descend down the stairs, blinking in the dim light. He'll never get tired of seeing her wearing his clothes. She even has a pair of his socks on. It's chilly down there; she wraps her arms around her as she arrives at the landing.

"I can't sleep," she murmurs as their eyes meet.

"Want me to make you some tea?"

"I'd love some, thank you." She crosses the room, sitting down just as he rises and walks towards the kitchen. "Let's sit outside."

"It's freezing cold, Scully."

She grabs the afghan that's folded against the back of the sofa and lifts it up as if that's a valid argument against his claim. As he puts the kettle on, he hears the front door open and close, then the creaking of the swing on the porch. He shrugs and grabs a coat as he waits for the water to boil. He makes himself tea as well – black, not that vile herbal stuff she's so fond of. Then, balancing the two mugs in his hands, he goes outside to join her.

She has the afghan wrapped around her shoulders. She accepts her mug with a murmured _thank you_ , then lays her knees against his thigh and her head on his shoulder. It's not as cold as he's thought; it's actually quite nice with the tea warming his hands and her body pressed beside him. He looks straight ahead. The darkness is absolute and all-consuming; it seems to stretch on forever. The porch is a tiny pool of light in its midst.

"What a night, huh?" she whispers huskily.

"We seem to have plenty of those recently," he agrees. They haven't spoken properly since she's told him she's pregnant; hinted at it, really. There have been too many distractions, too many things to attend to. There are a million questions whirling inside his head, but at the same time he's speechless, unsure where to begin.

"I don't think he's dead, Mulder."

"What are you talking about?" he asks even though he knows; her eyes are burning with it as she looks up at him.

"William. I can't explain it, but I can still feel him." He isn't used to such conviction from her, still has to pinch himself whenever she speaks of visions and spiritual connection. He thinks how far she's come. She misinterprets his silence, shakes her head sorrowfully. "I know I should let it go. Not only because he asked, but because it's time. We can't build a future without letting go of the past." She looks up at him intently. "I'll always think of him as our son, as I'll always think of Emily as my daughter. No matter the circumstances through which they have come to this world."

"That chain-smoking bastard," he murmurs. He can't help himself. He doesn't care he's been used and manipulated, and he can live with the gaping wound left by the discovery that William has never been his to keep, to yearn for. He only cares about what's been done to Scully. That, in his eyes, is the man's worst sin. "I hope he rots in hell. Even hell is too good a place for him."

"Mulder, don't. It's not worth it. I don't care what he told Skinner. As far as I'm concerned, _you_ are William's father. As far as he's concerned too, I think. Or he wouldn't have done what he did tonight."

"Do you think we'll ever see him again?"

"I don't know. I want to believe he'll come to us... when the time is right." He smiles a little at her choice of words. "Besides... before you know it, we'll have our hands full."

His heart skips a beat at the implication of her words. There's so much he wants to know, but still words fail him. He decides to go with the simplest question. "How long have you known?"

Something like guilt flashes in her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed; it's visible even in the dim light. "A while. I should have said something sooner, I know, I just... couldn't find the words."

"I'm having the same problem right now," he chuckles, pressing his lips to the top of her head. Then something occurs to him, and he pulls away so he could look at her. "You shouldn't be running around like you did tonight. And a few weeks ago, when you fell down that elevator shaft..."

She nods somberly. "I know. But I had it checked and it's fine. I'm fine."

"You know I hate it when you say that," he frowns at her.

"I know. But I mean it. I have every intention to bring this pregnancy to term. Hopefully in a suitable facility with no one on our tail."

He shudders at the memory of how William was born, the race against time to allow his safe arrival into the world, then to get them both to a hospital. "Is it high risk? Can you still..."

"I can still work, for the time being. It's probably best if I don't go in the field as often, but I know a few people who'll be happy to step in for me. Those young agents who consulted us a while ago, I like them. Maybe we can convince Doggett to relocate back from the West Coast."

"He may make the effort for _you_ , but I doubt he'll do it for me," he grins at her. The matter has been a long-time joke between them. Back in the day he used to tease her about Doggett being in love with her (and he was; he didn't need to be a brilliant profile to figure out as much), and she fervently denied it over and over again. "Besides, no one in the entire Bureau will ever be able to step in for you, Scully." He doesn't even know if the X Files have a future now, with Skinner's own future so unknown. Maybe they should both move on. Maybe he'll write that book she has once beseeched him to write, instead of chasing monsters in the dark. He can probably pull it off.

"I expect we'll see so much of each other you'll probably get sick of me sooner rather than later, so maybe we shouldn't be working together at all."

He's so wrapped in his own little fantasy about his new life as a celebrated author, that the meaning of her words barely registers at first. "Oh?"

"That's the other thing I wanted to say," she says a little hesitantly, peeking at him through her lashes. "I was thinking about how much you've missed out on the first time around. I don't think I can do this alone this time. I don't _want_ to do this alone." There's a beat; she seems to be bracing herself. Then she locks her gaze with his, doesn't speak again before she knows she has his full attention. "I want to move back in. I think it's time. I'm ready. _We're_ ready."

For a second, he's speechless. For all the times he has longed to hear her say those exact words, now it feels wrong. He thinks back of the mess that dominates the main floor, and upstairs doesn't fare any better, if he's honest. This is no place to bring a newborn to, let alone raise a kid in. The house had served its purpose well when they needed to live in total isolation. But their circumstances have changed since then. This is something he has battled with ever since coming back to work. He knows it's time for that to change as well.

She moves an inch back, to better search his eyes, it seems. He still hasn't replied, and he can tell it bothers her. She looks at him expectantly. It takes him another moment to form the thought as it takes shape in his mind, but then he shakes his head.

"No."

About a dozen different emotions flash in her eyes as she stares at him in disbelief. He even thinks he detects a tear or two, gleaming in the corners of her eyes. "No?" she whispers dejectedly, her voice breaking ever so slightly. He knows how it sounds, and feels like a jerk for making her react this way. It reminds him of another time he has played a similar trick on her, upon regaining consciousness after returning from the dead. _Who are you?_ Seeing her so wounded tears at his heart; he cuts off the charade at once.

"No. I mean yes. I agree that we're ready. But not here."

The tears she has struggled to hold back now spill uncontrollably down her cheeks. Her lips tremble. She looks genuinely confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that this time, we're doing this right." He feels more confident as he says it, as if he's finally taking control of their lives. For so long he's been so unsure of their next step; now he knows with absolute certainty. "Clean slate. We'll get a new place. Your mother has left us enough money to have a solid start." Margaret Scully has been more than generous, astounding everyone as she included him in her will, not as her daughter's significant other, but as though he was one of her sons. None of them has expected it, let alone Bill Jr., who was seething upon finding out. "A new house, closer to the city, in a nice neighborhood. Maybe that same neighborhood where your parents lived." He doesn't realize he's crying until she reaches out to wipe a tear from his cheek. He blinks a few more tears only to realize there are tears streaming down her own face.

"I thought you were going to reject me," she says, her voice a cross between a laugh and a sob, as she smacks him gently.

"I never wanted you to leave, Scully," he counters softly. "I get why you did, and I promise I will never give you another reason to want to, ever again." They're both a mess, but he doesn't care. "You won't have to do this alone. I'm not going anywhere." He places a finger under her chin, lifting her face to his. "I love you more than you'll ever know."

She smiles through tears. He's acutely aware of the fact this is the first time he has ever uttered those words. She's obviously aware of it too. "An extreme possibility, if I've ever seen one," she whispers, then sniggers to herself as if this is some sort of a private joke. She leans closer, and their lips meet in a lingering kiss, their first in many months.

It is a night of revelations, indeed, he muses, as they sit there in comfortable silence. The tea is long finished, the mugs on the floor underneath the swing. Slowly but assuredly, the darkness around them alleviates as night shifts into dawn. In the nearby forest, birds begin to twitter. The misty sky becomes gradually brighter. As the first rays of sun caress the edge of the porch, he feels her head slump against his shoulder. He glances at her; her eyes are close, her lips parted slightly. It reminds him of a stormy night in his apartment. _What if there was only one choice, and all the other ones were wrong?_ He can't help but smile. It feels as if it happened a lifetime ago, and in many ways, it did. Gently, he scoops her in his arms and slowly stands up, carrying her upstairs.

As he lies beside her, sweet thoughts lull him into sleep. They're different than the nightmares he used to have about William, dark and horrible with no happy ending in sight. There's no darkness this time, none at all. In his mind's eye, he sees a little redheaded girl lying on her stomach in front of a Stratigo board, determined to learn the game even though she's way too young to really get it. She is in a basement that is bright and airy, a stark contrast to the dingy basement where it all started all those years ago. The only trace of his life's work is the _I Want to Believe_ poster on the wall, which has really become quite the family heirloom by now.

They often tell her how they also met in a basement, once upon a time, although their story is far from being a fairytale. He's not a man of faith, but he prays she will never know darkness, not as intimately as they have done. He tries to let go of the past, not to linger on the aunts and grandparents she will never know, the older brother who will never be there for her. He thinks instead of the good the past has done them. If anything, they have bedtime stories to last her a lifetime, tales about beast women and moth men, about a lake monster and a weremonster, about a guy with never-ending luck, and one who turns invisible by a simple wish. Some stories she is fascinated by; others make her raise an eyebrow dubiously at him, so achingly like her mother. " _Da-ddy_ ," she whines, sighing with exasperation, making Scully giggle in delight.

She's rather studious, their little girl; an avid reader from a very tender age. Well, how can she not be? She likes sitting with him as he's working on his manuscript, reading over drafts she's too young to actually understand. He likes sharing it with her anyway, likes that they can bond over those experiences which are really her legacy as well. He imagines them sit in his study as he asks her, _Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?_ And she thinks hard, because this is what she does whenever he asks her serious questions like that. Then, with the tiniest frown upon her freckled face, she looks straight at him and says,

"Logically I would have to say no."

In his sleep, he smiles.

An extreme possibility, if he's ever seen one.


End file.
